


Nothing in the Tales are True (At Least Not the Tales They Tell)

by NoHolds



Series: Shadows in the River Fog [6]
Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Low Chaos, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Post Game, Post-Game, Post-Low Chaos Ending, dubiously canon-compliant, low-chaos, rip chaos doesn't even look like a word to me anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 15:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoHolds/pseuds/NoHolds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corvo Attano and the young Empress are scouring the isles, hunting for the usupers rumored to be gathering against Dunwall's throne. The pair of them make a splash everywhere they go, the biggest living legends in a hundred years.</p>
<p>And everywhere they go, too, are normal people, watching to see if Corvo and Emily really are as the stories say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing in the Tales are True (At Least Not the Tales They Tell)

You've heard the legends of course,

Corvo Attano, master Assasin, single-handed savior of Dunwall, terror of traitors, unwitting subject of penny-dreadful authors everywhere.

You are not some wide-eyed schoolchild. You know the stories cannot all be true. You have seen enough 'legendary' whalers limp into your docks to drink, joints gouty form the sea, that you know there is often little truth to heroes.

And yet-

When you first see Corvo Attano, you cannot help but be disappointed.

His ship pulls proudly into dock, a sleek dark-hulled vessel called _The Jessamine._

That entrance alone is worthy of telling; such a ship coasting into port, sails open like the wings of some great seabird, the tropical water glittering jewel-bright as it parts around her proud bow.

But every moment after that is a let-down.

The gangplank clatters noisily out from the ship and there is a great bustle of crew and dockworkers to make ready.

You are not some gawping child. There is cargo to be loaded and unloaded, and it will not wait for anyone, legends be damned. Still. You can watch _and_ work.

And so you watch as _The Jessamine_ 's sails are folded away, watch a great swarm of crew members fasten the ship securely to the docks, and then-

There he is.

Corvo Attano, a dark shadow behind the young Empress, both of them standing, a moment, at the top of the gangplank, surveying, before setting step for shore in perfect tandem.

You are reminded of the sea-hawks that circle the docks in pairs, these great watchful shadows, moving ever as one.

But legends are one thing and birds are another, and Corvo seems less a legend in the flesh.

He is old, in truth, and he walks with a limp- though he hides it well. His long hair is streaked with gray, his face lined heavy with years.

And besides that, when he steps onto level ground, you realize he is _small._ Would maybe come up to your shoulder.

A short, limping, silver-haired man, with the shadow of a salt-and-pepper beard at his jaw.

This is _not_ the man of the legends. Of the pulp adventures (not that you read the pulps. Much).

Sure, Attano has a dark, dangerous look to his eyes, but so does every other pirate and whaler that spills drunkenly into the docks.

Other than that- you cannot picture Corvo doing the things they say he's done.

This is not the man who blew into the Boyle's party in his own assassin's costume, dissapeared Lady Boyle without a trace, signed his own name on the guestbook, and blew out again without a hair out of place.

This is not the man who scaled Dunwall Tower and moved through its halls like a ghost, who exposed the Lord Reagent's plot to all of Gristol, clearing his own name and dethroning a traitor in one move, without killing a servant or rustling a guard.

This is _certainly_ not the man who liberated the Golden Cat, freeing the young ladies from the tyrannical rule of the traitors and earning their... er, _favours_ in return (granted, perhaps that _particular_ adventure was from a pulp novel, not a public paper).

No-

The real Corvo Attano is a shuffling, aging bodyguard.

And the person he is guarding- she is not like the stories say, either.

This is not the young empress, clad all in white, awaiting rescue by her alleged father.

In fact, you might believe Emily the hero of all those adventures. She is dressed in the same dark coat as Corvo, has the same steely-hard eyes, has a sword hidden in the folds of her clothes.

She looks _dangerous_. Moreso than her father (and, seeing them side-by-side, there's no doubt that the empress and her bodyguard are blood).

And yet- looking dangerous is a skill useful to an Empress in a foreign land. It doesn't mean she knows how to _use_ that sword.

You've seen enough hopped-up nobles with their daddie's swords get ground bloody into the cobblestones to know a weapon and good posture don't mean much, in practice.

So you watch them; the Empress in her heavy coat, her bodyguard with his rolling limp, and you don't allow yourself to be disappointed in the collapse of this particular legend.

* * *

They stop to eat at this little hole-in-the-wall near the docks. The fish is fresh and well-cooked, but you think it's fare a little simple for royalty.

Then again- aside from the fine clothing, there's something a little rough about Corvo. About his Empress. Sitting at the bar shucking their own oysters, they don't have the air of nobility making a show of 'connecting with the common folk'. They just seem like-

people. Enjoying a meal.

A further separation from legends, maybe, but _people._

You guess, maybe that's how it is in Dunwall. Or maybe it's just them.

Whatever. You work the docks. You're tit-deep in real people every day. They don't interest you.

So you stop paying attention for a while, until-

a half hour after the Empress and Corvo sit down, there is a great clatter of plates and cutlery, and your head whips around to see men in dark clothing bursting into the restaurant.

There are so _many_ of them, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, converging on the young Empress in a tide of steel and shadow.

Your hand is on your sword almost before you realize, on reflex, but-

there is a great flash of tropical-blue light, and then you can't see Corvo, and a sharp-bright sword has appears from the folds of the Empress's coat, easy in her hand.

Corvo, suddenly, is behind you, herding tourists away from the fight, moving like a much younger man.

The empress is weaving out of the restaurant, drawing the fight into the emptied docks, her sword flashing in the summer sun.

There is another flicker of blue light that leaves spots in your eyes, and then Corvo is back-to-back with Emily, his sword drawn, a strange tattoo glowing across his knuckles.

The attackers are in a rough circle around Emily and Corvo, six ragged, scarred-up dockworkers in dark coats. Mercenary types.

In seconds, two are flat on their backs, Emily's sword wet with blood, crimson spattered on the cobbles.

Corvo flicks his wrist strangely, and they- you don't see what happens, exactly, but the next instant two more mercs are down, and Corvo is crouched by the bodies, the flash of a grim smile showing through his beard, the strange tattoo now blinding-bright on his hand.

Emily, trading blows with one of the last mercs, circles around to stand at Corvo's back.

He shoots her a smile, and together they fend off the last two mercs, effortlessly, Corvo braining his opponent with the butt of his sword, Emily sweeping her merc's legs out from under him and landing a sharp kick to his throat, leaving him gasping like a fresh-caught fish.

Corvo does a quick survey of the bodies, nods sharply, and turns to Emily, holding her at arm's length to look her over.

“I'm _fine,_ ” you hear the Empress say, sword dripping bloody onto the docks, a bruise blooming over one fine cheekbone. You see her look Corvo over, too, a concerned flick of eyes to his sword, hands, bad leg.

“I'm _fine,_ ” The Empress says, again, and Corvo nods, apparently satisfied, and pulls her into a quick hug.

“Told you,” You swear you hear Emily mutter, fondly, and then she's bending to inspect the bodies herself.

“He'll live,” she announces, of the man whose blood is on her sword, and Corvo hums approval.

They bustle about in post-fight maintenance, for a while, Emily cleaning her sword, Corvo tying the hands of their attackers and dragging them off a distance for the guards to find.

You're still reeling from the blistering-fast fight as the royals wrap up.

The entire struggle lasted only _seconds,_ and Corvo and Emily fought through completely unharmed, but for the lucky brush of a fist against Emily's cheek.

Perhaps-

you think of the blur of silver-bright swords, the blistering blue light, the fluid way Corvo and Emily dodged and struck together.

Perhaps there is something to the legends after all, you think, even as Corvo and Emily past, talking in low voices.

“Just like we thought,” Emily is saying, and Corvo nods, his dark eyes glittering like a magpie's.

For a moment, when you look at him, you see a much younger man.

A man without a limp, without silver in his hair, a man with the same dark coat, the same bright eyes-sword-teeth.

Then he shuffles by, hair salt-and-pepper, joints thick with scar tissue, and the illusion fades.

He is an old bodyguard once again, and nothing more, but-

but you think you are not ready to discard the stories, after all.

Perhaps Corvo is not the rugged, six-foot tall warrior from the pulps, hair and muscles rippling in the sun-

Perhaps he is not, after all, the Lion of Dunwall that the stories portray.

But maybe the falcon of Dunwall, the alleycat, some slinking sharp-eyed thing, striking from the shadows, a creature of hidden blades and plagues.

Corvo Attano is not like the legends say, then.

But perhaps he is a legend nonetheless.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, another one of these. Just pre game two. Probably my last or second last story in this series before the next game comes out.
> 
> Con/Crit welcome!


End file.
